Fire
by EbonyKittyCat552
Summary: In his last moments, holding the Silmaril, all Maedhros can think about is the fire, and how this is what a sinner like him deserves


I'll admit, this is kinda strange and very sadpasta, but then, a lot of the things I write are

Maedhros is one of my favorite characters, and I couldn't help but write this

Warnings: somewhat disturbing content, deathfic (though not graphic)

Disclaimer: all elves belong to Tolkien

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_Fire_ was all Maedhros could think about.

_Fire… hot… burning…_

His eyes stared down at the blinding stone clenched tightly in his violently shaking hand, its purity searing hot against his flesh. Everything about it was so intense, so mesmerizingly brilliant, that he couldn't even look away from it despite how his hand screamed and screamed to _drop it_.

He _couldn't_.

_This… this was what we were searching for all this time._ It was so pure and beautiful. It made his eyes sting and every beam of light on his flesh tingle faintly. Except for his hand that touched its diamond surface, which felt as though it would fall to ashes.

_Burning… hot… SIN… let go, let go, let go…_

Why did it burn?

It seemed with that simple thought the _pain_ came rushing to the forefront of his mind, and a choked scream broke past his lips, his eyes wide in horror. This wasn't right! It shouldn't burn! It shouldn't hurt! It was their _salvation!_

For a moment—a single, tiny, indescribable moment—his fingers almost released the burning jewel. But he forced them to tighten and bit his tongue until it bled. Never before in his life had he felt such horrible, terrible pain… no torment the Dark Lord had ever come up with could compare to _this!_ Even Findecáno's death…

Findecáno's death… his brothers' deaths… his cousins… uncle… kin…

Kinslayer

And tears finally reached his eyes and slid down his cheeks. It felt as though that fire burned through his blood—molten to his stained fëa—bringing a flood of his _sins_ back to the forefront of his mind. He had tried to _forget_… so, so very hard… to forget _everything that had happened to them._ He wanted it to _go away_.

But it wouldn't.

It _couldn't_.

He couldn't take it back. Never.

_Findecáno… what have we done?_ It was a question he'd been trying to answer since before they had even been cursed. It was a question which he'd never been able to find an answer to, not really… or maybe he'd just been deluding himself.

He had tried to forget the bloodshed and heartache… tried so very, very hard, but he had failed. Because _this burning stone_ in his hand would _never_ allow him to forget it. To forget… forget…

Forget his sins?

Murderer… traitor… liar… coward… kinslayer…

_I'm sorry…_

Sorry wasn't good enough. The unforgiving thing in his hand seemed to be a thousand degrees, seemed to eat away at his flesh and soul. The awesome beauty of their salvation seemed to shrivel up, and he suddenly wanted to be as far from this… this _thing_ as possible. He couldn't stand it!

_Pain, pain, pain… burning…_

"You do not deserve it," he whispered to himself. Even as he held their prize in the palm of his hand—_it burned like a brand to his skin_—he knew with the utmost and horrifying certainty that they _didn't deserve it._

_We have sinned so much… fallen so low that we can never crawl back out again._

Despair boiled up inside him with his traitorous tears, tears which had not fallen for almost five hundred years. All this time he'd been deluding himself, pushing aside his problems, hiding in the darkness of his mind, only to reach this fiery end and find himself suffocating, being eaten alive.

_I want to die._ The realization came fast and with a wave of insidious shame at his own cowardice. _I want this to _end. _I want it to be over._

All this time they'd been trying to find this… this _rock_… and what had it gained them?

Nothing.

They had suffered through blood, betrayal and tears for _nothing_.

This time, the urge to flee overcame him. Maedhros did not look where he stepped, but he knew where he wanted to go. He wanted to end this _finally_. But he would end it so no one would ever be tempted again. _If you are out there, Maglor… Macalaurë… do not come after me. Give up this madness!_

His legs carried him faithfully to his destination, until he looked down into the earth upon a raging inferno. His hand hadn't gone numb—to the contrary, ever step he took made it ache all the more, its purity clashing so powerfully with his rotten fëa that it send shudders of pain throughout his whole body so he could barely manage to stand—and he looked down into the abyss.

He had been born of fire, if only his father's. The same spirit flowed through his veins which had kept him alive all these centuries… too long. His pride and stubbornness had been with him to the very end.

But they were _nothing_ compared to the fire—the fire that seared still into his left palm from the shattered hope that was this brilliant thing of beauty—which he had _lived_ by. His sins twisted and turned behind his eyes, and he could swear that every death that had ever been had unjustly by his hands flashed through his mind, and his hands, even the phantom of the right, could still feel the sticky _drip, drip, drip_ of blood that marred their long-fingered _im_perfection. It _burned_.

"Why did things have to be this way?" He stared upwards at the sky, searching for answers that he _knew_ he wouldn't find in the cold-hearted stars. "Or was this our destiny all along, the part we were meant to play?"

He didn't want to think like that. Surely… surely things could've been different… surely they hadn't been set in stone…

_The Oath,_ he was reminded, _set your futures in stone._

His eyes fell back to the flames an unnamable distance below his feet. Could he really… really do this? Was he ready?

_Yes,_ an angry voice hissed against his consciousness. _It is no more than you deserve, you wretched excuse for a person. Go die… Die in the flames that you sowed with your own foolishness and arrogance._

Closing his eyes, Maedhros took the final steps until his boots teetered on the edge. He pulled the Silmaril close to his chest… and fell forward.

_Die by the fire… it is no more or less than you deserve, sinner._

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How depressing... ah well, I couldn't help myself

Review if you wish


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